Lost In Hopelessness
by AmeNeko
Summary: {HETAONI; SPOILER WARNING} In a past time loop, Italy's mind begins to crack as the final death and the need to turn back the clock once again arrives. The Thing is near, and the broken nation might give up the ghost…if something or someone doesn't stop him first!


**Hello everyone, AmeNeko here, with a depressing HetaOni oneshot concerning the main victim of it all, North Italy! Enjoy, I guess. HERP DERP**

**BTW, the fanfic's title comes from the name of one of the many beautiful HetaOni soundtracks! ^^**

**This is also my very first Hetalia/HetaOni fanfiction ever, so please give me advice if you find any errors in that specific area (ex. OOC-ness, mannerism of speech, etc.)**

**Rated T for angst, violence, implied character death, and cussing.**

**Disclaimer; I don't own Hetalia, HetaOni, or any of the characters in the fic or Author's Notes. They belong to their respective owners. The only thing I own is this story.**

Lost In Hopelessness

HetaOni oneshot

Italy's eyes were firmly closed, because he didn't want to look at what was in front of him. His instincts were screaming at him to open his eyes, but he defied them and continued to see only his eyelids.

The knowledge of what was before him was clear, but he wouldn't accept that what he knew was there actually there. Rejecting reality was his only defense, because surrendering, his usual resort to situations like this, was what he was fighting, and damn, it was hard.

The Italian licked his lips nervously, and felt his chest swell up with urge to just scream in despair at his situation. Fleeing would cost him his blissful sightlessness, and staying would simply sharpen his urge to escape.

Italy took a few steps backwards, and felt his back press against a wall. Well, that eliminated escape as an option; he had to see in order to avoid slipping out the door…but…

The island nation let out a faint cry and fell to the ground. His eyes opened, and tears began to freely stream forth as his sight cleared and he saw what he hadn't wished to see.

The blood. The body. The knowledge of who, how and what. All of this came rushing at his senses, and at once Italy's mind was fogged and distorted with grief and…something else.

What made it worse was that as soon as Italy's eyes came to the bloodied corpse, he could no longer look away. The mangled form was recognizable, at least to him. That didn't help his grief either.

Germany had been fine before he and the Italian had stepped into the room. The former-military leader had been alive and breathing, until _it_ was suddenly there. While in reality, the thing had been in the room the whole time, it felt more like it had just appeared as if by magic…which, seeing what had been happening as of yet, it wouldn't had been very surprising if that had actually been the case.

The thing was faster than any of them, and it attacked with such swiftness it was over in a blur, yet time seemed to have slowed down as it ripped apart…ripped apart…

Germany's body was bloodied in several places, where the thing had just torn at him. The monster had been aiming its attack at Italy, but the German had gotten in the way…on _purpose_, to save him.

The thing hadn't seemed to have noticed that the person it was shredding into pieces wasn't his original target, or seemed to care. Italy, on the other hand, _did_ mind, but despite the fact he fought…so hard…it—

Italy's eyesight clouded as grief flourished within him. It seemed to reincarnate into the tears that welled up in his eyes…perhaps they were the source of his indistinct vision?

The colors before him blended into stains, wraiths of different hues that seemingly danced and quivered in the air, swirling around and taunting him, the Italian and his anguish.

Red was the primary shade that pirouetted in his vision; the scarlet reflected in his hazel eyes, making them appear bloodshot and crazed. It wasn't like they weren't bloodshot and crazed to begin with, but the blood-reflection seemingly emphasized it.

There was green mixed in with it as well; the green of Germany's uniform that he always wore. It was mixed with the red…the blood.

As his eyesight cleared, Italy began to panic and stumble towards the door. He didn't want to see what was before him, and his natural defense—fleeing—was quickly becoming his only option. The Italian quickly pushed himself off the wall he had been leaning against before and staggered weakly towards the door, or at least what he thought was the door.

Unfortunately, it actually wasn't the door; it was a blemish on the wall, probably from the mansion's age, that in Italy's fuzzy eyesight resembled a doorway. As his vision quickly cleared, however, it became quite apparent that the splotch was _not_ a doorway, but a splotch. The Italian's flicked nervously to his right, and upon finding no door, gulped.

Italy's mind began to race. Even though it was a minor thing to get worked up over, lack of a door, his fragile mind was beginning to crack. _Oh no, there's no door…B-but didn't that thing enter through a door in here…? Didn't I—wait, wasn't it we? I? We? I? We? _

The two words echoed over and over in the poor Italian's head, and he turned around, and tripped over seemingly nothing, which turned out to be his own feet and imbalance, and fell on his back.

In an instant the world seemed to tilt on its axis, and at once a rush of raw emotion filled Italy, burning the empty places in his soul, the parts that died as his friends died, creating holes in his spirit…many holes, holes that now stung sharply and they seemed to remind him of every death he had seen.

_FLASH!_ Japan dead on the piano.

_FLASH! _Russia, France, and China, bleeding and dying as he fled.

_FLASH!_ America's solemn expression as he was left with the dying Britain and Canada.

_FLASH!_ Germany and Prussia…telling him run.

"_Perche? Perché sempre morire!_" he cried pitifully. Italy curled into a ball, and gave a mighty shiver. His entire body was wracked with shudders, and the blood in his ears was roaring loudly, so loudly he almost didn't hear the footsteps approaching the room. Almost.

Italy sat up with the speed of a lightning bolt as the sound of footfalls drew near. His pupils dilated instantly. _Oh no…oh no, not again, not again!_

The Italian stood up shakily and faltered backwards, pushing himself against the wall behind him. His heart hammered in his chest; he wondered why the monster couldn't hear it, it seemed so deafening.

The dull thuds were getting louder. They were like thunderclaps, signaling the coming storm that would tear everything apart. Italy's eyes flashed their whites with fear; the lightning of the squall.

In an instant Italy's thoughts were raided with the thoughts of escape, escaping the God-forsaken mansion forever and never looking back. But in the next instant he clawed those treacherous ideas away; he could never abandon his friends here! _Not now!_ Not after all he'd been through!

The thuds became more prominent.

In desperation Italy tried to conjure some sort of idea, but his mind was just so clouded with panic and fear; his instincts were screaming at him to flee, to run away, but there was nowhere to run.

_Thud, thud, thud…_

The footsteps were slower than Italy's rapid heartbeat, which was fluttering frantically his chest, as if it was threatening to burst out of his body and fly away. Fearfully, he placed his hand over the area of his palpitating organ.

_Thud, thud, thud…_

Italy closed his eyes, as the thing approached. His curl twitched in a sudden wave of… relinquishment. The feeling was old and familiar to him; it was what he had done nearly all of his life, yet it had taken him so long to awaken the timeworn instinct.

_I…can no longer run. I can't run away from it anymore. I…I can't do this anymore. It is best…if I lay my life down. I should…just give up now…_

A small voice in Italy's head whispered, _It is so easy to abandon hope and surrender once you've lost everything, so easy! Lost…once you've lost everything, you are lost in hopelessness; the only possible way out, it is to…!_

_Yes,_ Italy replied, opening his eyes, surprised at the calm that enveloped him, as if the one, easy thought of giving up had cleared his mind of everything else, even the fear and grief that had wracked him but a few short moments ago.

_Thud…thud…thud…_

The thing was just in front of the door. It was preparing to open it, fling it wide to the room where his adversary awaited him.

But Italy, in sense, was no longer an adversary. He was now victim to his never-ending hunger, desire for blood and flesh and the gasp of one's last breath.

The said Italian's curl twitched once more, before becoming completely limp, sagging weakly over one of his auburn eyes, which were now dulled over into a dark and ugly shade.

_Creeeeaaak…_

But when the squeak of the door slowly revealing the contents inside the room to the thing awaiting the discovery, a sudden hush went through the air and the atmosphere in the room seemed to freeze.

"…Mmh?" Italy mumbled, looking up at the door where his enemy stood. The thing was standing there, as expected, but there was something, well, off.

The door was only half open, as if it was frozen in place. The thing's appendage, hand if you will, bloodstained from its last kill, discolored the door a lifeless red shade, and it seemed frozen too.

The thing's face was peering over the side of the door, its eyes lackluster and sending a small shiver through Italy's body. It stared blankly at him, and after what felt like ages did Italy realize that the thing wasn't moving. It was frozen, like everything else.

Italy's eyes widened, and his curl rose back up, curling back into its original position. _It…It's frozen? How can that be, I didn't do anything—_

Suddenly, Italy stopped. He trained his eyes towards the wall a little to the right of the door, and realized there was something that wasn't there before; a rough clock, painted with blood.

The hands of the clock, as expected of a painting, were frozen, pointing to the time of 11:59.

_PM or AM?_ Italy wondered off handedly.

**PM.**

_?!_

The voice that had replied to Italy's blasé question was one that was oddly familiar…but he had to be dreaming, it couldn't be…could it?

Italy spoke the next word aloud shakily. "_F…fratello_?"

_**Si.**_

The Italian gasped. "H-how…what…I-I…"

_**Veneziano…**_**Say my full name.**

"Romano…Italy…"

**I'm a part of Italy too, bastard! **

"_Fratello…_You…can…you know…"

**Certain memories of yours keep coming over to me! I don't know the whole story, though; What the hell's going on?! I've felt like half of me had disappeared or something several times, and sometimes, I get overwhelmed with sadness…What the hell, Veneziano?!**

"_Fratello,_ I…I…" Italy stammered, his emotions overflowed with the discovery to communicate with a friend who hadn't died. It was an overwhelming feeling of both wretched joy and desperation towards his situation.

_**Veneziano!**_

_Oh. Right._

"Romano…I can't…really…I-I mean, I…don't know how to say it, but I…I…I'm…g-going...I will…" Italy fumbled with his words, suddenly unsure of himself, and what to say. He dared a glance at the door, and he wondered if it was his imagination, or if the door seemed to have moved an inch…

"Romano, how…did you stop time?" Italy asked instead.

**H-huh?! Time stopped? What the hell? I didn't do anything, I just got pissed off that I couldn't contact you, and that I kept getting these weird thoughts, so I got so pissed I wanted…everything to stop…**

Italy swallowed. "Oh…"

**You haven't fucking answered my question, you know!**

Italy's mind suddenly remembered two things at this moment; the fact there was a dead body in the room, and the fact that he had the journal that he had dutifully kept with him all this time. The two impulsive thoughts seemed irrelevant, but Italy all the same turned his gaze towards the body of his German friend, a corpse without life, and slipped his hand into his coat pocket, withdrawing noiselessly the journal he had kept with him all this time.

The journal he clutched in his two hands and held in front him, as he turned away from the carcass that made his eyes tear up at the very thought of it. The precious book usually was a dull shade of weathered brown, with a thinly sewn cross upon the cover. However, the journal was faintly glowing a luminescent green, the cross flashing dangerously.

"…What?! What is this?!" Italy hissed under his breath, feeling scared all over again.

**Hey, what's going on, Veneziano?! **

Romano's shout of alarm, presumably from Italy's own outburst, snapped the younger Italian back to reality.

"Something weird is going on here!" Italy shouted fearfully.

**Weird? I don't know where you're going with this, **_**fratello**_**!**

"Uh, gosh, well…" Italy began, but stopped, and opened up the journal. He flipped to a random page, expecting nothing, but instead saw a familiar object painted in faint red ink; a rough sketch of a clock.

He looked at the identical image on the wall, then back at the one in the journal. He repeated this several times before it clicked together in place.

The clock symbolized the stoppage of time, because it was a frozen image, and thus could not move onwards in terms of time.

The red ink was blood, that much as quite clear. Blood stood for death, and the death this red liquor symbolized was the many, many deaths that had befallen Italy's fellow nations again and again.

The journal's power had given him a solid representation of his situation; lost in a bloodied sojourn in time. A gap in between the next minute and the next.

Romano was his brother, and not just any brother; he was Italy as well. In sense, they were a division on one thing, a pair combined to create a whole. Italy knew their connection was strong as soon as they reunited; he always knew when his _fratello_ was sad or hurt, when his prideful cursing façade wasn't real, and Romano seemed to understand when Italy was faking his smile.

Italy had in his hands the power to play with time itself; in sense, Romano did too. Even if he wasn't aware, he had a fragment of the overwhelming power, and that was enough to affect his situation.

Italy voiced this to his brother, praying that Romano wouldn't accuse him of losing his mind, of going crazy, because he feared that his brother would be right. It was something Italy dearly wished hadn't befallen him.

Romano was silent for a very long time, long enough that Italy worried his connection with his _fratello_ was lost forever. But the reply came, softer than you would expect from the rude Italian.

_**Fratello…**_**Why are you not back yet? Is this the reason why? Because of…I'm not going to ask. I think it is something you do not want to talk about.**

"_Si…_"

**Well, Veneziano, I think that you've been through a lot,** Romano's voice stated quietly, **because I've felt it. I know it.**

"…"

Italy was silent in response to his brother's surprisingly calm reply. Usually Romano was an angry and ill-mannered person, but he seemed to have softened up in an effort to be, well, an older brother.

How long had it been since they had shared such an authentic and sincere brotherly discussion? Many of them ended with Italy bursting into tears, or Romano storming away in a rage.

Italy suddenly felt the journal heat up in his hand, and his head suddenly filled up with agony, like water filling up a balloon until it was two seconds to bursting.

_**Veneziano!**_

_Fratello! It…hurts…I don't think this connection can last—_

**I know that! But I need to tell you som—something before i—its breaks!**

The room seemed to blur all around Italy, and the clock on the wall, the bloodied ink, began to drip downwards, towards the floor, spilling off and away. The journal was trickling out blood as well, and it stained both the cover and Italy's wrist.

But Italy paid it no heed. His only attention was at his brother. It suddenly felt as if Romano was standing right in front of him, looking into his eyes, and speaking to him.

**Run away, Veneziano, and turn back the clock! Turn back the clo—clock, and don't let it eat you! Don't give up! JUST RUN—**

A loud crash burst Italy's eardrums, and he almost wailed out loud at the painful noise. As it receded, he was still struggling to hold back his cry, when a low creak caught his attention.

The thing was opening the door, slowly, its eyes peering straight at him, and the Italian blinked as it registered that _the monster was in the room and oh gosh it was going to eat him and Germany, and—_

Italy allowed his fear to seep away, his brother's words suddenly filling his mind; "_Run away, Veneziano, and turn back the clock!"_

The young Italian bolted, slipping underneath the thing, and kept running, running away, to find the way to turn back time.

He smiled, sincerely, something that was a rarity since the time loops.

_Thank you brother, you helped me out of the forest of hopelessness, and how I am no longer lost. My friends and I will escape, and we will eat pasta together when this is over…_

_I can already taste it._

**oOo**

**Me; That took waaay longer than I thought it would.**

**Romano; No shit, Sherlock.**

**Me; Author's Notes~!**

**I honestly don't really know what happened here while writing this…it was going one direction, and then it bolted away and went somewhere completely different. But I like the way it turned out! ^_^**

**I originally wasn't planning on writing in Romano, but HRE, but I changed my mind and stuff, so this is what I got…Roma and his potty-mouth…*sweat***

**As I stated earlier, I would appreciate any advice in writing Hetalia, because I'm doubting myself in this, so…**

**Hasta la Pasta, everyone~!**

**Italy; Please review, everyone, because that makes us feel happy! **


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